angry. His breadth was enormous, the shoulders packed with hard, heavy muscle, the chest like a barrel. He wore a chain mail hauberk but no pants. His legs terminated in black hooves. A dense mane of coarse hair crowned the back of his neck. His features were a meld of bull and human, but where the minotaur's face had been a cohesive whole, the shapeshifter's skull was a jumble of mismatched parts.
Behind them reared a nightmarish creature. Its lower body was python, dark brown with creamy swirls of scales. Near the abdomen, the scales became so fine, they glittered, stretching tight over a human upper body, complete with a pair of tiny breasts and a female face that looked like it belonged to a fifteen-year-old. She looked at us with emerald-green eyes. Her skull was bald and a hood of flesh spread from her head, resembling that of a king cobra.
A lamia. Great.
The lamia swayed gently, as if listening to music only she could hear. Old magic emanated from her, ancient and ice-cold. It picked up the sand and rolled it in feathery curves to caress her scales before sliding back to the Pit.
Behind me, Dali shivered. She stood in the sand with a clipboard, an ink pen, and a piece of thin rice paper cut into inch-wide strips.
I eyed the swordsman. Weak and sloppy. Okay, I could do that.
The crowd waited above us. The hum of conversation, the clearing of throats, and the sound of a thousand simultaneous breaths blended into a low hum. I scanned the seats and saw Saiman on his balcony. Aunt B, Raphael's mother, sat on his left, and Mahon, the Bear of Atlanta and the Pack's executioner, occupied the chair to his right. Sitting between the alphas of Clan Bouda and Clan Heavy. No wonder Saiman had been persuaded to give up his spot to Curran.
Behind Aunt B, I saw a familiar pale head. Couldn't be. The blond head moved and I saw Julie's face. Oh yes, it could.
"You bribed my kid!"
"We reached a business arrangement," he said. "She wanted to see you fight and I wanted to know when, where, and how you were getting into the Games."
Julie gave me a big, nervous smile and a little wave.
Just wait until I get out of here, I mouthed. We were going to have a little talk about following orders.
"I know what the problem is." Curran pulled his shoulders back and flexed, warming up a little. I stole a glance. He had decided to fight in jeans and an old black T-shirt, from which he'd torn the sleeves. Probably his workout shirt.
His biceps were carved, the muscle defined and built by countless exertions, neither too bulky nor too lean. Perfect. Kissing him might make me guilty of catastrophically bad judgment, but at least nobody could fault my taste. The trick was not to kiss him again. Once could be an accident; twice was trouble.
"You said something?" I arched an eyebrow at him. Nonchalance - best camouflage for drooling. Both the werebison and the swordsman looked ready to charge: the muscles of their legs tense, leaning forward slightly on their toes. They seemed to be terribly sure that we would stay in one place and wait for them.
Curran was looking at their legs, too. They must be expecting a distraction from the lamia.
She sat cocooned in magic, holding on with both hands as it strained on its leash.
"I said, I know why you're afraid to fight with me."
"And why is that?" If he flexed again, I'd have to implement emergency measures. Maybe I could kick some sand at him or something. Hard to look hot brushing sand out of your eyes.
"You want me."
Oh boy.
"You can't resist my subtle charm, so you're afraid you're going to make a spectacle out of yourself."
"You know what? Don't talk to me."
The gong boomed.
Memories smashed into me: heat, sand, fear.
The lamia's magic snapped like a striking cobra. I jumped up and to the left, just in time to avoid the pit in the sand that yawned open beneath my feet.
The Swordmaster was on me like white on rice. He charged in and struck in a textbook thrust of wrath, a powerful diagonal thrust delivered from the right and angled down. I jerked back.
His blade whistled past me, and I grabbed his leather and smashed my forehead into his face.
There you go. Sloppy.
Red drenched my face. The swordsman's eyes rolled back in his head and he fell.